“Execution-style slaying,” Grissom said as Nick knelt to look at the two wounds in the Predators’ leader.
“An orderly kill in the midst of chaos,” Nick said quietly, then shook his head and stood.
“The Predators will want revenge for Valpo,” Catherine said to Nick, but for everyone’s benefit.
Lopez nodded. “And the Spokes for their loss. That’s why we’re trying to keep the two gangs separated. Hell, maybe they’ll cool off.”
Irritated and frankly a little afraid, Sara asked, “Make up your mind, Chief—first it’s they’ll combine and come at us, then it’s they’ll fight each other…. Either way, why haven’t you just arrested them all?”
Grissom, gesturing around them, said, “Not every gang member was part of this.”
An insistent Sara said, “But they’re all suspects—why not round them up, using that as an excuse? Then thin them out, based on the video surveillance cameras.”
“Only a police state rounds suspects up on an excuse,” Grissom said.
Catherine said, “With murder only one of the crimes committed here, questioning all concerned is called for—and the state police investigators will swell our ranks soon enough, and help on that score.”
Flashing a sad grin, Lopez said, “Afraid the point is moot, friends. We’ve got five, count them, five two-person cells. There are in excess of two hundred biker guests in Boot Hill right now.” He waved vaguely in the direction of the street. “If we can keep the Rusty Spokes holed up in the Gold Vault, we’re halfway home. We’re trying to keep the Predators’ camp under control, too, of course; but they’re not confined to a building, so that proposition is a little trickier.”
“Let me ask the key, as-yet-unasked question,” Grissom said.
They all turned to him.
Grissom’s eyes were slits. “Doesn’t the Four Kings have metal detectors at the door?”
Running a hand over his face as if that would wipe away the exhaustion, Lopez said, “Yeah. Of course. I don’t have to tell you that’s standard nowadays.”
Now Grissom’s head tilted to one side, eyes still narrow, and he said, “That raises the obvious question then, doesn’t it? How did so much hardware wind up inside the casino?”
The chief gave a huge sigh and shook his head. “I frankly just don’t know the answer to that one. We’re looking into it, and it’s important now, Dr. Grissom, no question. But understand that for the last few hours, we’ve all been more concerned about the aftermath of guns getting in than how guns got in.”
Grissom nodded. “That’s fair.”
Cody Jacks, his red jacket still showing spots of dried blood and small pieces of glass that glinted when the light hit them right, joined the ever-growing group. His tie was loosened and the top two buttons of his white shirt were undone.
“Guess this is one time you guys aren’t exactly short on evidence,” he said.
Catherine said, “There’s enough that it’ll take days to sort it all out.”
Nick said, “So, Mr. Jacks—you were here when all the fun went down, we understand.”
“Make it ‘Cody,’ and yeah, I was.” Jacks pointed to some shot-up slot machines not far away. “Right over there.”
“Dangerous place to find yourself,” Grissom said.
“No shit. I hit the deck and started crawling like a baby—tryin’ to find somewhere where I could return fire.”
Grissom asked, “You had a gun?”
Jacks nodded and pulled back the red jacket to reveal a Glock 19, a nine-millimeter pistol with a fifteen-round magazine. “I work floor security—we’re supposed to have the only guns in the casino.”
“How many rounds did you get off?” asked Nick.
“I’m not proud of this, but…not a one. By the time I felt safe enough to pop my head up, the shooting had stopped. And to tell you the truth, it would’ve been risky in any case, with all the chaos, patrons and staff running around.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Nick said.
But Jacks seemed to take Nick’s innocent remark wrong, puffing up to his full height.
“You weren’t here, son,” he said, ears reddening. “Me, I saw combat in Desert Storm, and lemme tell ya—that was small change compared to this, forty or more guys all firing at the same time, none any too worried about taking aim or even which way their weapons were pointed.”
Nick held up his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t questioning your bravery, Sergeant.”
“If I could have fired, I would have. I had friends in here I would give my life to’ve helped—that little girl, that blackjack dealer? I got her her job.”
Nick flicked a look at Catherine as if to say, What’s this guy’s problem, anyway?
But Sara thought she knew: survivor’s guilt.
Jacks was going on, “Truth is, I figured most of the people in the joint would be dead. It’s a good thing none of those assholes can shoot straight or this would have been a goddamn slaughterhouse.”
“You’re right, Sergeant,” Grissom said. “Many of the people here were luckier than anybody in a casino has any right to be—at least one hundred and fifty rounds were fired.”
Jacks shook his head. “Felt like forever, Dr. Grissom, that’s for damn sure. But I’ll bet you both my jobs that when you look at the time stamp on the video, whole shooting match didn’t last a minute.”
“Neither did the OK Corral shoot-out,” Grissom replied.
Catherine said, “Why don’t you give Chief Lopez’s guys a hand, Nicky, and see if you can figure out what’s up with the Case of the Mysteriously Malfunctioning Metal Detectors?”
Nick nodded and moved off toward the front of the casino.
“For that matter,” Grissom said, “why didn’t those metal detectors go off when we came in?”
Again they all turned to him.
Grissom had made a good, obvious point that no one had previously commented upon.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” Lopez said, “but you’re right, Doc.”
Both Catherine and Sara exchanged glances and stifled smiles: nobody had ever called Grissom “Doc” before.
But Grissom didn’t seem to mind. After all, this was Boot Hill, wasn’t it?
Lopez was saying, “Those damn detectors should have been howling all night.”
Catherine said, “We’ll figure it out.”
Lopez ran his hand over his face again. “This is going to give Byron Ivers and the rest of that crowd all the ammo they’re gonna need.”
Sara considered the bullet-riddled casino around them and wondered about Lopez’s choice of the word ammo.
“And who is Byron Ivers?” Catherine asked.
Jacks said, “He’s one of the assholes…”
Lopez shot the sergeant a withering look.
“…I’m sorry…concerned citizens,” Jacks continued, “who bitch about the Biker Blowout every year.”
Lopez said, “It’s a constant argument here—the merchants who consider the event bad for the town’s reputation, and others who appreciate the business the Blowout brings in.”
“The anti-Blowout group,” Grissom said, “would seem to have a pretty good case now.”
The chief said, “Maybe, but nothing remotely like this has ever happened before, Doc. Generally, the bikers were rowdy but behaved. A good segment of the population here thinks it’s important that the town continue to host the event, since basically it supports some businesses for the next six months.”
“Sounds like a real love-hate relationship,” Sara said.
Lopez nodded. “Not a lot has changed here since the days of the Old West. Same thing happened back in Tombstone.”
“Tombstone?” Catherine asked.
“Yes,” Grissom said, jumping in. “The city fathers there had the same problem. The cowboys who spent their paychecks in town supplied a large part of the economy, but those same cowboys, including the Clantons, McLowerys, Frank Stillwell, and the others, were the very
ones that were tearing down Tombstone, making it impossible for the city fathers to lure families in and build a respectable community.”
Cody Jacks said, “One family came—the Earps.”
“True,” Grissom said with a small smile. “They came to represent the town and eventually it got to the point where they had to make a stand…and the cowboys lost.”
Suddenly Sara understood why Grissom had the history of Tombstone on his mind.
Sofia came up, planting herself in front of Catherine. “I’m heading back to Vegas,” she said. “Anything else we need to take?”
“I think that’s everything,” Catherine said, eyes narrow with thought. “For now, anyway. I’m sure we’ll be collecting more evidence throughout the night.”
“I’ll take the stuff to the lab,” Sofia said, “then I’ll get to work with Archie sorting through the videotapes.”
Catherine gave her a quick nod. “Let us know as soon as you have something.”
They said goodbyes and all watched Sofia pick her way through the mess on the floor and go out the door even as the paramedics came in with another gurney—this one for Nick Valpo. The group moved to one side as the paramedics loaded the body and hauled it away.
The next thing Sara knew, Grissom was hovering over where the body had been, his eyes scouring the floor amid the broken glass, scattered chips, shredded gaming tables, and other flotsam left over from the battle.
“Grissom,” she asked, “now what?”
He froze, his eyes coming up to meet hers. “Valpo was right there,” he said, pointing to the spot where the body had been.
“Yeah, so?”
“That means the killer had to be right about where I’m standing.”
She glanced at where the body had lain, her memory going back to the near contact wound of the head shot that had killed Valpo.
Grissom’s eyes met Sara’s and a reconstruction played in the theaters of both their minds.
The killer is in the casino. He or she is watching Valpo, waiting for their chance, or waiting for the Rusty Spokes to start the gun battle, depending on whether this is all part of a plan or just a lucky break for a murderer.
The firefight erupts.
Bullets fly, everywhere. The killer is either already close or gets close to Valpo. He or she wants this badly enough to be at personal risk in order to assassinate the gang leader—both in public view and in the line of fire.
Valpo takes a hit to the shoulder and goes down. His killer senses the opportunity and moves even closer, the small pistol seeming to fly to the back of the Predator’s head, the trigger practically pulling itself. A flash of light from the muzzle, and half a second later, a sharp crack barely makes a dent in the cacophony of the gunfight going on around it.
Flopping once, Valpo goes still. The deed is done and the killer relishes the exquisite feeling of accomplishment, an electric jolt of victory—Nick Valpo is dead.
“Okay,” Sara sighed. “You’re standing in the right place.”
“If I shot Valpo with an automatic,” Grissom said, “the shell casing should be around here somewhere. I looked for it when the body was here but came up empty. A second try can’t hurt.”
Being careful to avoid standing in Grissom’s light, Sara joined the search, combing the floor for a metal casing little bigger than a fingernail.
In the meantime, Catherine moved off to search a slightly wider area, in case the thing might have been kicked or knocked away somehow. She also checked where the female dealer had died, since a similar casing might have been produced if the vics had shared a killer.
Lopez and Jacks seemed just about to walk away when Nick hustled up.
“Not rocket science,” he said with a crooked grin, “figuring out why those metal detectors didn’t work.”
Sliding back a few steps to the group, Catherine asked, “Why’s that?”
“Batteries are dead.”
They all looked at each other, dumbfounded.
“Batteries?” Chief Lopez asked incredulously.
“The Four Kings, it seems, did not spend top dollar on their security equipment,” Nick said. “After all, from a management point of view, how often is there going to be a shoot-out in your casino, anyway?”
Lopez was shaking his head in disbelief. “Dead batteries made this possible?”
“As a police chief,” Nick said, “this shouldn’t surprise you. What industry spends the least on video surveillance equipment?”
The chief did not hesitate. “Banking.”
“Same theory here,” Nick said. “Don’t spend too much money on what you’ll never really need. There’s nothing wrong with the detector itself—it’s a model I’m familiar with. Battery life, on a normal day? Upwards of nine or ten hours. Somebody needs to regularly change the batteries, which is no big deal—except in this instance, they didn’t do it.”
Without moving his feet, Grissom asked, “How does every metal detector in a casino have its batteries go dead at the same time?”
Nick said, “Who’s to say they did? Who knows how long they’ve been dead? Anyway, if they did have one staffer in charge of the whole perimeter, and changing all the batteries at once, all of ’em going dead at about the same time is possible.”
Lopez snapped into action. “Cody, find Henry, now. Tell him to get his ass over here now.”
“What if he doesn’t—”
“What part of now don’t you get, Cody?”
Looking a little wounded, Jacks lumbered off in search of the casino’s security chief.
While they waited, Grissom and Sara resumed the search for a possible shell casing.
“A lot of places have battery-operated metal detectors,” Nick said to Lopez. “For one thing, during a power outage, they’ll still work.”
Lopez nodded, but obviously still seethed.
Nick went on: “I would’ve expected them to stagger the times more between each individual detector, just to avoid this very thing. You have six detectors, like the front doors here? Then you have three that have their batteries switched from midnight to noon, and the other three that get changed between noon and midnight, so you’ve always got at least three working.”
Grissom looked up long enough to say, “This is sounding more like conspiracy than simple bad planning.”
“You think?” Lopez asked, with no trace of sarcasm.
Shrugging, Grissom said, “If not conspiracy, how did both gangs know that the metal detectors would be out at this precise time?”
“Or worse yet,” Catherine said, “that they’ve been off all week?”
Sara was shining her flashlight on a spot near Grissom’s right foot.
“Right there,” she said.
Grissom bent down and picked up a small brass shell casing that had been obscured not only by the shadow of Valpo’s pant leg, but by a small pile of chips that had provided the casing a small cave to hide in.
“Nice eye, Sara,” Grissom said. “A twenty-two.”
He plopped it into an evidence bag and sealed it.
Catherine said, “Too bad we couldn’t have found it before Sofia left.”
“At least we’ve got it,” Grissom said, and put the bag in his pocket. “Chief, you know anybody who carries a twenty-two automatic?”
“Pretty common piece,” Lopez said. “Could be townie, tourist, or biker.”
“Nonetheless,” Grissom said, undaunted, “it’s a start.”
Sara began working the area where the dealer had died, and soon said, “Bingo!”
And Grissom bagged a second twenty-two shell, saying, “So the execution was witnessed, and the witness was executed.”
Cody Jacks sauntered up, Henry Cippolina at his side.
“Henry,” Lopez said with a terrible smile, reaching out to put his arm around the security chief’s shoulder. “Who’s in charge of changing the batteries in the metal detectors?”
Cippolina looked confused. “Maintenance department, Chief—why?”
“Because all the batteries, in the metal detectors?”
“Yeah?”
“Are dead.”
The already pasty Cippolina somehow went a shade whiter. “Oh, shit.”
“Can I quote you on that, Henry?…Now, whose job would it be to make sure the maintenance department has actually changed the batteries?”
“I usually have one of my security guys check them,” Cippolina said.
“And who would have had that responsibility tonight?”
Cippolina rubbed the fingers of his left hand across his forehead, as if he might squeeze the information out. After a moment he said, “Tom Price.”
“Where’s Tom now?”
Cippolina and Cody Jacks were both craning their necks around to look for the security guard.
“Well,” Cippolina said, “he should be here.”
“Snack bar?” Catherine offered.
They all turned in that direction.
“Maybe,” Jacks said, “but he should have been among the first to give statements, so he could get back out here and help keep order.”
Grissom asked, “Remember seeing him, Sergeant?”
“Hey, I’m not in charge of him. Right now I feel lucky to know where my own ass is.”
The group headed over to the snack bar, Cippolina and Jacks slowly scanning the place for their lost security guard. The snack bar was full, probably far more crowded than during its busiest rush, people filling every seat—counter, tables, booths.
Everybody looked exhausted, sweaty, and scared. A few had broken down and ordered something to eat, but most just nursed half-full cups of cold coffee, the only waitress now leaning against the counter, her trailing mascara an obvious sign she had been crying. The smell of cordite had been replaced by the familiar if pungent aroma of fried fish, french fries, burgers, stale sweat, cigarette smoke, and fear.
An older woman touched Lopez’s hand as they passed. “Chief Lopez, are those terrible bikers going to come back?”
Lopez patted the woman’s hand and shook his head. “No, Mrs. Hill, they’re not coming back.”
As they moved on, Lopez told them, “Mrs. Hill is a regular. Lives over on the west side.”
Catherine asked, “You spotted this fella Price yet?”
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